


Lilies and Orchids

by the_charm_caster



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Breakups, Fate & Destiny, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Kryptonian Biology, Kryptonian customs, M/M, Rebound Sex, Slight Voyeurism, batsarcasm at its finest, cameo appearances - Freeform, drunk Superman, kind of, someone has a crush on Superman yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_charm_caster/pseuds/the_charm_caster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce knew it was wrong. Wrong to fall in love with the man who had brought him lilies, wrong to fall in love with a man who was taken, wrong to fall in love, period. He should turn away, away from the sun, as he always did. And yet he brings orchids to the man he'd come to think of as the Sun itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brucie, baby

“Bruuuuuuce!”

Eyebrows shot up underneath the cowl. Not because Superman had used his real name on the JL transmitter. Not because he could hear sultry music in the background. And certainly not because Superman sounded… well, intoxicated. Maybe it was the detective in him, scrutinizing even the smallest details. But could the Son of Krypton even _get_ drunk?

No, Bruce Wayne was surprised because of the way Superman sounded- a little giddy, and a little ..off. Something was not right.

“Hello? Brucie, baby? I know you heard me,” came the voice again, this time deep and low, unlike Bruce had ever heard him use. Batman grunted in reply, and checked the connection settings. At least Superman wasn’t drunk enough to forget to turn to a private channel. If he were drunk, that is. This could be a spell. Or the influence of something else; probably one of the different colored stones from outer space that Superman always, _always,_ seemed to cross paths with. How could such a gullible man be given the responsibility of saving the world? Bruce rolled his eyes in irritation at the ridiculous name Superman had just called him with. He was “Brucie” to the rest of the world, who needed to see him as the silly playboy billionaire, not to his ..allies. And _then_ there was the baseless endearment Superman had used.

“So..,” the Man of Steel continued, “I know this may sound weird.” He laughed nervously, low vibrations rumbling into Bruce’s ears in the mechanical silence of the Batmobile. “But, since you’re heading home for the night, would you like to come and join me for a drink?”

Again, Bruce’s lips twisted down into a confused scowl. There were so many things “weird” about that question, that the Caped Crusader didn’t know where to begin. First of all, yes, he indeed was heading home from the night’s patrol. But it’s not like he had been broadcasting that information. There was no way Superman could’ve known that, unless he was using his superhearing skills on Bruce. Which the Bat highly disapproved of.  Second, the JL transmission lines weren’t social networks. The members weren’t supposed to ask their buddies out for drinks on these connections. And third, _they weren’t even buddies to begin with!_ Bruce couldn’t remember a single piece of conversation between him and the Man of Steel that may have seemed like Batman was up for socializing. Though he did remember numerous occasions where Superman had tried to rope him into conversations and rendezvous with other members. Bruce had hoped his glare would work as good as Superman’s laser eyes in such situations, clearing out his personal space.

Apparently, it hadn’t.

And then, his thoughts took another turn. What if Superman was in trouble and was asking for his help, in some code? What if-

A sigh, and Superman spoke up again. “Uh. I’m sorry I asked. Probably stupid of me,” –a self-depreciating huff- “nevermind. Please forget that I ever asked.” His voice cracked.

Superman had taken his silence for his rejection. And Bruce would’ve kept it that way, had not he heard the sadness in Superman’s voice... No, not _just_ sadness, it was grief. Bruce would never admit it out loud, but it sounded like someone had put out the sun. He suddenly left helpless. Something ached in his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he found himself asking, before he could control his own mouth.

“Bruce,” Superman gently whispered after a few seconds, and thank goodness he had called on the JL transmitter; ordinary telephone connections could’ve never picked up his voice over the loud music in the background. After all, the R&D department at Wayne Enterprises had always prided itself on its noise cancellation and voice enhancement software that none could rival.

“She left me.”

Bruce accelerated the Batmobile towards Metropolis as everything finally clicked into place.

Everything, but the way Bruce’s heart had skipped a beat when Superman had called him ‘baby’. That, he would analyse later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that it's been two years since I wrote anything, and this being not only my first rebound story, but also my first story in this fandom, I'm kinda nervous. Please hold on, it won't be as dark as it seems. I'm known for my pathetic attempts at humor. =P


	2. Don't mind the headlines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are mine.

Tracking Superman was easy; the communicator was produced in one of the top-access level labs of Wayne Enterprises, after all. But, like Bruce had deduced, the Man of Steel was in one of the pubs, in the busier parts of the city. Metropolis didn’t stay up all night like Gotham did, but there were enough people around to make “ _THE DARK KNIGHT PARTIES IN DARK CLUBS!”_ a possible headline for the next day’s newspapers.

Bruce had made a stupid-ass decision, he accepted that. What was he thinking, driving the Batmobile into Metropolis? Fine, he could find a dark alley and stow away his ride, but then what? Hopefully, Superman was not in his uniform, but in civilian clothes, but would that make any difference? Was Batman supposed to barge into the club, glare at everyone and grab Clark out of there and into his car? Another heading flashed into his mind, going along the lines of “ _GOTHAM’S HORROR KIDNAPS DRUNKEN REPORTER FROM METROPOLIS”._

What was he thinking? No, the question should be, _was_ he thinking, at all? This wasn’t the first time he felt injudicious in situations involving ...a certain alien. Maybe Superman gave off some imperceptible rays that hampered Bruce’s thinking. There was no other logical solution.

Sighing, he parked the Batmobile two blocks away from the neon lit building where Superman was. Superman definitely owed him one, _another one_ , Bruce thought, as he grabbed the spare Gucci suit he had stowed for emergencies like this, and began changing in the cramped space. The Batmobile was made to be driven into war zones, not to double as a trailer to drunken billionaires, he thought, buttoning the silk shirt.

Brucie Wayne made his way, stumbling a little, to the loud music and crowded gates of Superman’s Fortress-of-Solitude-for-the-night. His eyes took in the throng of people that had started to notice him, and then, the name of the club. “ _Sun’s Haven_ ”, the neon lights announced in proud orange. _How apt_ , he thought, flashing his trademark charming smile to the crowd that had started gathering around him.

* * *

It took Bruce exactly 11.78 seconds to find Superman in the crowded club. It’d have taken less, but Bruce was looking for a clumsily dressed, awkwardly mumbling, intoxicated reporter who would’ve looked out of place amidst the bodies grinding into each other in the strobe lights. Maybe even skin-tight blue and red. He certainly had not expected to look for some modern God of Fertility, sitting in one of the VIP couches, with three beautiful women pressed against all his sides.

For the umpteenth time that night, Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. He started to wonder if it was Batman who was the under of influence of the spell, or some kind of Kryptonite, and not Superman, since (A) Superman probably couldn’t get drunk on alcohol, and (B) Superman probably couldn’t be acting like Brucie Wayne II like that. No way. Bruce carefully observed “Clarkie” Kent for any tell-tale signs of magic or drugs or- He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, actually. He was rather, looking _at_ what was happening in front of him. An _En Vogue_ photo-shoot, he hoped.

One of the girls, a brunette, had popped open the top three buttons of Clarkie’s wrinkled shirt, the tie hanging loosely around his neck. Bruce’s eyes followed her fingers crawling on the naked skin, because he was looking for the supersuit, _obviously_ , and not because the Son of Krypton looked like he might be the reincarnation of _David_. The suit wasn’t there, to his relief. But honestly speaking, Bruce wasn’t feeling _really_ relieved, as he watched. The woman's teeth grazed on the point where the neck and shoulder met. One of Clark’s favourite spots.

Clark sighed, pausing the make out session with the blonde who was almost on his lap. One of his hands moved down to grab her ass, while the other fondled the brunette’s breasts playfully. The blonde giggled and tugged his lower lip between her teeth. Roughly. Just the way he liked it. She knotted her fingers in his dark hair, pulling him into another filthy kiss.

The third one, a curvy girl with dark hair, was sprawled lazily in his lap, mouth ghosting dangerously close to his crotch. She rubbed him, through his clothes, and his hips twitched. In the dim lights, Bruce could see the hard-on, and the apparent lack of supersuit that could’ve kept it obscured. He could also see her mouth watering, and the way she licked the excited member, right through the pants.

Bruce wasn’t sure if he had actually shuddered at the sight, but he was a hundred per cent sure that he had _not_ cried out Clark’s name out loud. Nevertheless, Clark had snapped his head towards Bruce, looking at him with half-lidded eyes, as if Bruce had really called him physically. Bruce’s heart skipped another beat. He hoped Clark wasn’t really a telepath- that would be …inconvenient, to put it lightly.

Superman’s eyes were an enigmatic shade of azure, almost florescent, glowing even through his thick, dorky glasses. Bruce suddenly understood how Clark became Clarkie, how he hypnotized the three women, and got into the VIP section. If Bruce could feel the intensity all the way across the dance floor, he could only guess how strongly it must’ve affected the women.

A voice in his mind reminded him that it was important to figure out how Superman had sensed him. Superhearing was out of the question, since Bruce hadn’t said anything since he entered the club. Superman had obviously not seen him, being busy having a battle of tongues with the blonde in his lap. Did Superman _smell_ him? Was that possible? Would Superman really do that? But suddenly, Bruce wasn’t interested in analyzing the situation, or even listening to the voice in his head.

Clark was looking at him, eyes hooded, the three women engrossed in worshiping his body as if he were the god he looked like, and Bruce looked back, frozen in place. And it was no joke, rendering the Dark Knight speechless. It was next to impossible, Bruce had believed. After all, it had taken years of hard work and dedication to prepare his body and mind for any nasty surprises. But he was human, after all. And Bruce was reminded that Superman was _otherworldly_ , after all. It was difficult to remember that when Clark kept tripping over nothing at the office, or mumbling shy questions during interviews with the CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

Someone whispered something his ears, and Bruce snapped back into reality. Right, it was the woman he had picked up outside, to maintain his Brucie persona. He pulled her close and leaned in to tempt her for a drink, by licking a wet line from her collarbone to her earlobe. He did that, _obviously_ , to keep up the playboy persona, and not because he was aware of the azure eyes watching him. Eyes, that turned cerulean with the lights of the club. But kept glowing, nonetheless.

The woman giggled, telling him what she’d like to drink, and then some. Bruce smiled and excused himself, pretending to get her drinks, never taking eyes off the godly stranger on the other side of the club. He vaguely remembered wondering whether he looked the same when he acted like Brucie in parties and clubs. And by ‘same’, he meant if he looked like he was in the premise of a porno too. Probably. He then wondered if he had the same effect on others, as Clark was having on him.

* * *

 

Bruce wasn’t sure whether he was feeling uncomfortable because the tables had turned, or because this –Clarkie- was a glimpse of what Superman was capable of, given the choice. He chose to act all mild mannered, but he could’ve gone with the playboy act Brucie was, couldn’t he? There must be no one on this entire planet immune to the charms of the Son of Krypton.

 A third possibility also surfaced, going somewhere along the lines of ‘this is wrong’ and ‘ _his_ Clark wouldn’t act like this’ and ‘those women shouldn’t be there’, but Bruce stomped it down, simply because Clark wasn’t ‘his’ to begin with. He also ignored the streak of _something_ he felt when he saw Clark with the women. Or rather, with anyone else. He absolutely refused to name this _something_ he felt, although he knew what it was. He needed to help Superman fight whatever it was that had taken over him.

And then Clark smirked, lazily, straight at Bruce, and Bruce forgot all his plans and schemes about getting Superman out of this spell/drug/space rock influence. _God damn_ , Bruce was _not_ aware that Clark could smirk like that.

Bruce remembered something he had read a few months ago, about how ancient Gods had hypnotized slaves into volunteering to be sacrificed willingly. At that time, Bruce had discarded it as fiction- not the hypnosis, but the Gods and volunteered sacrifices.

Right now, he couldn’t be sure, as he found himself moving towards this … _god_ in plaid _._ As if he had finally lost control of his body when he had seen Clark extracting himself from his band of devotees, getting up, and moving towards Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would anyone like to guess what is Clark really under the influence of?  
> 


	3. Basorexia

Bruce met Clark at the edge of the dance floor. They stood close, _so_ close, other dancers pushing their bodies closer.

“Brucie!” Clark grinned, almost feral. “You came!”

Before Bruce could dignify that with a reply, Clark was pulling him into a hearty embrace. Usually when Superman hugged Batman out of nowhere, Batman would roll his eyes and try to pull away as soon as he could. Right now though, Bruce stiffened, hands at his side. He was almost relieved this was just a hug, and uh, nothing more.

Clark’s hair was soft, almost velvety against his face. The cowl usually deprived him of this touch, and for once, he was glad he not Batman, but Bruce Wayne right now. Superman smelled of sweat, and that summer musk that seemed to follow him everywhere. Bruce found himself wanting to taste the invulnerable skin, just breaths away from his lips. He also smelled something feminine; probably perfume from one of the women Superman had left behind on the couch. Suddenly Bruce wanted to use his teeth on the same spot he had seen the brunette bite in, and show Clark what real pleasure was, unlike the vixens toying around.

Bruce pushed that thought away.

Superman was warm and comfortable, and so _solid_. Bruce found his body relaxing into the embrace, despite the turmoil in his mind. He tried to think of the last time he had been hugged... by someone else, that is. He couldn’t think of anyone, and even Superman had given him half-hugs through the armor. Bruce had never felt the Man of Steel so intimately before. _Oh_ , and then there was something _else_ , “of steel”, poking into his thigh.

Bruce tried to push back before Clark could catch how _much_ Batman, legend of nightmares, was enjoying this embrace. And that’s when he smelled it, a third, foreign fragrance. It was rich, and lavish, almost intoxicating, like prudently aged wine, but somehow richer. Bruce pushed back, gently sniffing. The fragrance was the strongest nears Clark’s mouth and _alright_ … this was probably not the correct time to think about tasting those lips, but somehow, today was the day Bruce’s entire body had decided to act insubordinate.

“You’ve been drinking?” Bruce asked, frowning.

Clark nodded, grinning.

“Drinking what?” Bruce blinked. What could it be that got Superman drunk? And not _just_ drunk, but intoxicated enough to enjoy three women simultaneously. This was Clark, the same Clark who had blushed up to the roots of his hair when Brucie had winked at him some months ago at a charity ball. Bruce knew he wasn’t faking it then. So _what_ in this goddamned world had intoxicated him into a womanizer? He remembered Superman telling him clearly that drugs and alcohol didn’t affect him. Unless.. there was kryptonite involved?

“I have a ...friend. He’s uh, not from here. He claimed that I won’t be invulnerable to his drink.. And I thought I could try it out tonight.” Clark was mumbling very fast, his words slurry. His eyes drifted down to Bruce’s lips. He whispered that last few words, which Bruce didn’t quiet catch. They sounded like ‘ _Aesirs don’t lie after all’_ , but Bruce wasn’t sure. What?

Sirens went off in Bruce’s head. He had to stall, somehow. The _way_ Clark was looking down at him… Bruce wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to resist the temptation. Especially since he knew what those gorgeous, gorgeous lips tasted like. He wanted to taste it all, again. He wanted to give in.

Clark hadn’t let Bruce pull himself free entirely. Two large, warm hands rested on Bruce’s arms, magnetizing him to move in closer. The Dark Knight was looking for an escape route, unsuccessfully. He shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t, but _oh_ how much he wanted to.

“But it doesn’t matter,” Clark was saying, “you’re here now... I have to ask though, where did you find a date so soon? You don’t carry Italian models in your utility belt, do you?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. Was this really the right time for humor? But then again, this was Clark, and somehow, his ill-timed humor was all but aphrodisiac to Bruce. There was a dopey smile on his face. Clearly wasted.  And Bruce had previously believed that a sober Superman talked too much.

Bruce was going to retaliate with a ‘ _where did you find THREE dates?’_ but that was the moment Clark chose to look back into his eyes, so close, so electrifying, stunning Bruce into silence. He could see hypernovas and supermassive black holes in those azure eyes, as if Kal-El held all the secrets of the universe in his eyes, seducing Bruce to come, uncover them.

Damn everything, Bruce thought, before leaping off the cliff. And Superman was there to catch him.

* * *

 

Clark’s lips tasted like madness and paradise, like sin and summer, and it was ambrosia to Bruce, who was suddenly as parched as a sun-kissed traveler lost in a desert. His body moved closer, seeking solace in Clark’s hold, not breaking the kiss, not breaking his life line.

If every being in this universe had one temptation, one downfall, one hamartia, Bruce knew what would his be. Lips, which tasted like midsummer peaches and warm nights. Lips, which were poison and nepenthe, burning Bruce’s soul and healing it all at the same time, and he couldn’t get enough, never get enough. Lips, which reminded him of lilies and orchids, and took him back in time, to that one night they spent together. Lips which reminded him exactly why they couldn’t- _shouldn’t-_ do this. Again.

He pulled away from the kiss, pulled away his soul into half, but Clark’s lips followed his, like blind followers trailing Faith. When Bruce leaned away –oh, how it took his entire will to focus and lean away, just a few centimeters more- Clark whimpered. Bruce regretted at once, he wanted his lips to atone for his mistakes.

Instead, he whispered, “Kal, we should not.”

Superman opened his eyes, and Bruce felt like a tornado had hit him, all at once. Someone had thrown a stone, and it had passed through Superman’s invulnerable body, and hit him straight in his crystal heart. Bruce could see the kaleidoscopic cracks of the broken heart reflected in his glassy eyes.

“Bruce,” Clark whispered. “She left me, Bruce.”

A solitary tear rolled down. Another pair of eyes joined, tears singing the duet of broken hearts.


	4. Lilium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gave him lilies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little history lesson, from the past.

Batman had worked with Superman exactly three times till date, each time, Superman initiating the call for help. Batman was not happy to part with his upper hand, but lives were at stake, and Gotham needed their cooperation. Superman was more than delighted to comply. _Such a boyscout,_ Bruce rolled his eyes.

It made him no less crosser that he had to invite “Clark Kent” to his home. Not that he really considered the empty, echoing corridors of Wayne Manor his home, anyways. It was bad that Batman currently had three broken ribs, numerous bruises from where .22 had ricocheted off the Kevlar, a hairline fracture on his right tibia, and a concussion that had made him pass out in a board meeting. (Brucie could always complain that the meetings were too boring for his taste.) But even worse was having Alfred Pennyworth as his supervisor. Of all the days that Alfred could’ve forced him to work from home, it had to be the day Batman had set up a meeting with the kitten-rescuer of Metropolis.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred had said in that reprimanding tone of his, sounding like a man who would take no more of Bruce’s erratic conduct. And even though Bruce knew Alfred would never leave him, never betray him, he was afraid, childhood fear enshrouding him like darkness once again. Maybe it was his body giving in to the pain, or the pain medication that Alfred had slipped into his poached salmon and mint salad, or the cold grip of nausea that never felt his heart after that one dark night, he didn't know, but Bruce had decided to stay, just one day. That didn’t mean he couldn’t conduct his business from the Cave. And the Manor, in this case.

He didn’t want Superman to know about his current …vulnerabilities. So he had decided to play it to his advantage. Maybe he could intimidate the simple, farm-boy-from-Kansas, average reporter by the wealth and status of the Wayne. Long shot for going against someone with supercooling breath, but Bruce had to try. It was either that, or letting Superman know that currently, Batman couldn’t run (limp) more than three miles without fainting like a Shakespearean actress.

Bruce wanted to figure out Superman, inside out. There was a certain allure to the man, no doubt. The entire world wanted to get their hands on the blue eyed wonder, and here they were, said man of wonder on his way to a lunch-meeting with Bruce, and Bruce couldn’t help but feel anticipation bubbling inside him. All this time, Bruce had seen him as Superman, descending from the heavens in royal blue, sculpted body silhouetted against the sun, yet somehow outshining the sun itself. Majestic red swirling behind him, enticing anyone and everyone, and that one tell-tale curl of hair, dancing in the wind, making him look more like a romantic lover from a faerie tale, than a gladiator with the _raw_ power of a thousand suns inside him.

And today, he’d get to see him as Clark Kent, all masks ripped away. All secrets ready to be spilled. All weaknesses ready to be exploited. Batman hadn’t been dubbed the World’s Greatest Detective by the GCPD because he could crack a lock or two. He knew how to find answers. And he wouldn’t give in till he did.

And yet, pacing (limping) in his study while he waited for Superman, Bruce realised that he was feeling nervous. This wasn’t the nervousness before a fight with odds against him. This didn’t even feel like the nervousness before he made decisions that almost resulted in his death on a monthly basis. No, that, he could swallow up with pride, or bury deep underneath his responsibilities.

This was different, something new. Like standing on the edge of a bottomless abyss, and feeling vertigo tease his insides. Like a strange song, with frequency low enough for his ears to miss, but rhythmic enough for his heart to catch.

Like someone standing against the sun, calling out to him, asking him to fall, asking him to sing.

Since nothing good could ever happen, (Bruce had even stopped considering that a possibility,) he was sure that this bizarre light-headedness must be an ominous sign. Maybe calling an alien with unchecked powers to his Manor was not a very smart idea. He should cancel as soon as-

He heard Alfred’s signature knock on the rich Maplewood doors, and soon thereafter, Alfred’s head popped in.

“Your guest is here, Master Wayne.”

Bruce nodded, and Alfred took that as a cue to escort the guest to the study. Had Bruce been seeing too much, or was there really an enigmatic twinkle in the old butler’s eyes?

Bruce’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the man enter the door. This was the first time his heart would betray his composure, of the many times to come, he’d realise later.

Clark Kent was dressed modestly, in affordable semi-formals, but the way the man carried himself spoke of something entirely different. The air was charged, in seconds, just like that, and Bruce was sure the sparks were originating from the azure eyes hidden behind ridiculously thick glasses. Like a light source deep underneath the blue ocean, blurry because of the sheer volume of water around it, but intense, nonetheless.

Later, after haunting Metropolis too many times to be considered coincidental, Bruce would find out that Clark Kent was usually clumsy and awkward; ungainly haptics and ill-fitting clothes hiding the alpha demeanour.

“Mr Wayne,” Clark’s voice broke his spell. Bruce hadn’t noticed him crossing the distance from the door to his desk. Clark brought a hand forward, a small smile on his face.

Bruce pushed off from the desk he was leaning against, clasping the offered hand in a firm shake. The hand was warm, and Bruce could feel the heat travelling up his fingers, up his palm, to his elbows, like his skin was singing.

“Superman,” he nodded curtly.

“Please,” Superman smiled again. It was the same, small, gentle smile. “Call me Clark.”

Bruce nodded again, but didn’t make any indications to be called ‘Bruce’ in kind. No need to get familiar. They were here on business.

Yet, when his eyes landed on the bouquet of lilies in Clark’s other hand, glowing in the afternoon sunlight filtering through the smoked French windows, time stopped still.

 

* * *

 

Lilies were gateways to his childhood, petals flowing gently in the backyard gardens, Sunday sunlight painting the grass golden, his mother gracefully dusting off the petals that landed on the picnic blanket. Lilies that swayed with the wind, dozens and dozens of them, like stars in the night sky, ornamenting the green house in their own private paradise, planted with great care because they were Martha Wayne’s favourite flowers. Lilies that Thomas Wayne had given to his would-be wife on their first date, after going through a great deal of trouble to find out her favourites. Lilies, which baby Bruce had smelled like, after falling asleep peacefully in his mother’s arms. Lilies, their scent mingling with raspberry syrup at the breakfast table, the centrepiece always adorned with the freshest blossoms.

Lilies, which never graced the Wayne Manor after that one dreadful night that snatched the flowers of their two patrons, and Bruce of his entire world.

Till today.

Superman’s eyes followed Bruce’s line of sight, and he cleared his throat. Bruce snapped back to the present again.

“These are um, “ Superman blushed – _blushed? –_ all his features suddenly turning shy. “This is for uh, to thank you, for inviting me to your house,” he finished weakly, offering the small bouquet to Bruce.

Bruce couldn’t really believe what he was seeing. He tried to slowly analyse the situation.

Superman could _blush_.

 _Superman_ had brought him flowers.

Superman had brought him _lilies._

“Thank you,” his voice cracked as he accepted the flowers.

As the fragrance unfolded, he felt the room turn warmer, somehow, more colourful than before. He blinked away his tears. The smile on Superman’s lips reminded him of his mother’s –genuine. It had been ages someone offered him a genuine smile. He was used to the plastic smiles on the models he dated and shareholders he dominated, to the grim frown on Alfred’s face each time he returned to the cave with another injury.

Bruce knew he should not associate his parents and Superman together. He knew he shouldn’t be favouring the Son of Krypton just because of his floral choices. He knew he should find out if this was just a mere coincidence, or if Superman could really read minds. He knew he should not let his guard down, and find out if Superman was really what he claimed to be. But as the fragrance colored his senses, he found his toxicity diluting.

It had taken Thomas Wayne three private investigators, eight days, a box of chocolate for Martha’s best friend, and four hours at the florist’s to sweep Martha off her feet with her favorite flowers.

Superman had done that with a genuine smile and the same flowers, effortlessly.


	5. Orchidaceae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may qualify as a little dub-con for some people. You have been warned.

Bruce felt that even if he wagered his net worth, all his assets, and his entire wealth, the scales would always tip downwards in favour of the one tear that was rolling down Clark's cheek. For a moment, he could see pearls falling down, out of his reach, towards the dark street, and he felt just as helpless now as he had felt back then.

Before he could realise what he what he was doing, he pulled Clark down into his slightly shorter frame, holding on tight with all he had. As if he could physically absorb out all of Clark's sadness. It was out of character for him, yes, but he couldn't let go once he felt the light tremors and soft sobs.

It wasn't awkward, as he had originally pictured it to be. He held in his arms the man who held the entire world on his shoulders, and he let him cry. Bruce felt tears soaking his shirt, painting his skin, painting him pictures of a lost soul, of the weight of the responsibility of Earth and beyond, of the lives Superman couldn't save, of the people he had to fight, and of the war he had to fight to protect his heart from shattering. Superman had lost. Clark had lost.  


"She said, she couldn't," Clark mumbled against his collarbone. "She couldn't pretend. No more."   


Bruce's hand instinctively moved up to Clark's head, petting his hair, gently, still trying to somehow take away all the pain. Clark leaned against the touch, and it all felt so natural. As if they'd been embracing each other forever, as if they were two halves of the same star, meeting after eons, but knowing each other, every crack and void. Bruce didn't even realise it was the first time he had initiated a touch. His body feel excited, his body felt at peace. It was wrong, he knew, but his body denied the motion. His body felt alive.  


Clark breathed in, deeply, and slowly, oh so slowly, moved to Bruce's neck, his nose paving a shy path on the skin, for his lips to follow. His kisses were like fireflies, petite and gentle, and yet Bruce could feel them light up constellations on his neck, every kiss burning bright. It was a small sigh that broke his trance, and Bruce snapped his eyes open. He realised the sigh came from him.  
He pushed himself away, or at least, tried too. Clark had him in his grip, unyielding.  


"Bruce, please," Clark looked into his eyes, sapphire suns eclipsed with lust, with want, with so much need. "I need... to touch." Clark leaned in, lips dangerously close to Bruce's. "I need you.. So much. So badly. Please." His lips brushed gently against Bruce's, but he didn't move further, awaiting permission, begging and hoping.  


Bruce had never heard so much raw need in Clark's voice. It clouded his mind, clouded his rationality. He knew he'd regret it later. He knew Clark would regret it later. What if the.. "incident" with Lois was temporary, and Clark went back to her, but hated Bruce for saying yes? What if he couldn't go back because of what Bruce was about to say? What if he thought that he had taken advantage of Bruce? What if he felt too ashamed to be in Bruce's company after this? What if he felt disgusted?  


What if he came to realise that he wasn't taking advantage of Bruce, but Bruce of him? That Bruce was not doing this because of pity, or for the sake of "friendship" or whatever it was that Clark thought was between them? That Bruce had wanted this, ever since they had met, ever since they had touched?  


This time, when Superman man flew them to the Wayne Manor, Bruce didn't object. Without his suit, he had nothing but Clark to cling to for warmth. But he knew, intoxicated or not, Clark wouldn't let anything happen to him. Highly irrational, but he just knew.   


This time, Bruce thought, as he kissed Clark, he'd let Superman leap into the abyss. And Bruce would be there to catch him.

* * *

  
Clark's touches were urgent, bruising, and as Bruce's eyes landed on his discarded pile of clothes, almost torn to shreds by one very needy alien, Bruce realised that as much as he wanted Clark to lose all his control, to maybe pound away his grief, Clark wouldn't be able to do that without breaking him. And maybe even then Clark wouldn't have enough.  


Batman was never, never caught unprepared, but this was Clark he was talking about, and this Kryptonian always seemed to mess with Bruce's mind.  


"Bruce.." Clark raised his head from where he had been kissing the joint between Bruce's neck and shoulder. There, seeing him lying on top, skin glowing in the soft firelight of the master bedroom, hair in disarray, and eyes lit with a foreign luminescence, Bruce realised how much he had wanted this. So long. He had wanted this for so long. His heartbeat, always controlled, broke free again, and fluttered in his chest.  


As if reading his mind, as Clark had been doing the entire night, he moved. It was a gust of wind Bruce felt rustling his hair, the cold air of the room on his body, and then Clark was there again, covering him with warmth and want. Bruce had no idea whether Superman had sped to his discarded suit, or to Metropolis itself, but it didn't matter. Not when Clark showed him the ruby flowers he had placed on the bedside dresser.  


Bruce felt his skin heat up, and Clark went back to kissing his skin, using teeth this time. As seconds ticked by, the kisses grew more urgent, the touches needier, the bites more frequent. But they also grew weaker, less forceful, less superhuman.  


Bruce dug his nails in Clark's back when he felt the other's tongue do a filthy number on his nipples. When Clark gasped in return, Bruce knew that Clark could feel the pain.  


On the dresser, crystal flowers shimmered blood red in the fire. To Bruce, the Red Kryptonite always seemed to glow when they emitted radiations, bleaching away Clark's superpowers, replacing them with permission, with possibility. With …blessings that seemed to unleash Kal-El to let go, to lose his control, to lose his mind.  


The flowers were designed after a rare species of orchids, matched down to the tiniest stems and gentlest curves. Bruce would know, after all, he had carved the delicate bunch himself.


	6. Periwinkle Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night he gives him orchids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub-con (ish?)

Superman was looking at him.

Bruce felt the intense gaze even with his back towards the alien. Who wouldn't feel the heat of a thousand suns focused at a point? Bruce shook his head, cuffing Poison Ivy's hands behind her back.

That's what Superman was, though. Like the sun, out of reach, burning bright. Scorching Bruce every time he approached the Gothamite. And he wouldn't stay away. No matter how many times Bruce pushed him away, Superman would approach him, look at him like _that_ , smile at him like _that_ , touch him, like _that_. Handshakes and pats on the back and pathetic attempts at humor and nods after successful missions and offers to fly him to rendezvous points. Superman wouldn't stop coming close no matter how much Bruce pushed him away.

It was as if Superman had a touching disorder of some kind, and he just _had_ to touch Bruce at least three times whenever they met. Whether that was true or not, Bruce didn't know. However, he did know one thing for sure; he was slowly, but surely, becoming chiraptophilic around Clark, and sometimes, he'd _let_ Superman touch him without any objections. Not good. Not good at all.

"Oh, be gentle, Batman," Ivy whispered. "You have to handle plants with care, didn't you know that?" She suddenly turned, facing Bruce, her hair brushing his face. Bruce could see soft lavender particles glittering in the air.

"Last chance," Bruce growled, "what are you doing here in Metropolis?"

Almost three years since the ‘lilies’ incident, and after several missions and almost-deaths and silent glares and blinding smiles, Batman had almost come to think of Superman as his …ally, if not just an acquaintance. So of course, _of course_ , he had to step outside Gotham when he heard that the Boy Scout was being held against his will.

Almost three years, and that hadn’t stopped Bruce from slowly but surely, falling in love. Not just with the cerulean eyes of the Man of Steel, but with heart of gold of the man underneath, the unyielding compassion, the endless kindness, his baseless belief in mankind. Of course he was physically attracted, but that, he could suppress, he could ignore, he could vent out on someone else, if need be. However, it was a little difficult to ignore the push of the icicle stabbing his heart every time he thought of Clark, and the happy smiles Lois Lane brought to his face, the content sighs the Kents of Smallville left on his lips, the energy the Metropolis sun gave his cells. The parasitic Bat could never give him all that. The Bat was damaged, broken, a leech, sucking away the happiness of everyone around it. It was a nightmare even the mentally deranged resented, while all Clark Kent deserved was stability and happy daydreams.

Besides, Bruce had a Mission, and if he shut his eyes tightly enough, Clark would disappear in the background, and the pain in his chest would dilute out enough for him to punch and kick his way to another dawn.

"Fine," Ivy smiled, lips glistening in the electric lights. "Since you're asking so nicely-" she leaned in, hands cuffed, red hair falling in her face. Bruce noted that the violet powder was in her hair, twinkling in the bland lights like young stars dusting a ruby sky. She smelled like wild flowers. "-I was delivering flowers to the big man over there," she nodded towards Superman, winking when he made eye contact, "courtesy of a certain businessman."

"What flowers?" Superman asked from behind.

"Periwinkles." Ivy smirked, and then turned her attention towards Bruce again. "Batman, I don't think I'm the one you should be cuffing," she said, leaning even closer. Bruce could see the leafy green of her eyes, perfectly matching the crown of leaves in her hair. "This is for good luck", she said, and leaned up to her toes to peck Bruce on the lips just as he was about to ask what she had meant. She tasted sweet, like sap and honeysuckle.

Before Bruce could react, Superman had her in his grip, and.. Did he just growl?

Bruce spat, wiping the kiss off his lips. Nonetheless, knowing Ivy, this was probably one of her serums.  He needed to get back to the Cave and run some tests in order to take the proper antidote.

"I'll deliver her to the GCPD," Superman offered, sensing Bruce's dilemma.

"Oh, sunshine," Ivy leaned back towards Superman, hair brushing into his face. "I'll be glad to go with you." She did seem glad. Huh.

Bruce grunted in affirmative, and there it was, _that_ nod Superman had to give each time before they departed. The one with the small frown, face set firm, but eyes shining with trust. He took off with Poison Ivy, leaving Bruce to a floor filled with now-dead carnivorous plants. The air still glittered with the soft violet particles.

Something was not right; Bruce had a dreary feeling in the pit of his stomach. He injected an immunity shot with the solution to counteract any of the serums Ivy had used previously, but if this was something new, he had to hurry. He collected the violet dust and hurried to the Cave.

* * *

It wasn’t right, Bruce thought, drawing out some blood to run the narcotics test.

It wasn’t right- the way he had found Superman, restrained by the meaty tendrils of Ivy’s animated plants. The way his lips were glistening, almost the same shade of rose as Ivy’s, as if she had kissed him too. Kissed him moments before kissing Bruce. Was this how Superman tasted? Like nectar and honey?

Bruce swallowed. He was suddenly thirsty.

It wasn’t right- the way Superman had softly whispered _“my knight’_ looking straight at Bruce, and smiled, even though they were in separate buildings. The Bat might not have superhearing abilities, but it did have a vast array of high-def binoculars and mastery in the art of lip reading. But Superman had known, even bound and helpless, he had known that Bruce was crouched outside the thirteenth floor window, surveying the hostage situation. Bruce’s heart had skipped a beat before he shot the grapple gun, cape stretching into bat-wings in the sinking sunlight. Metropolis was too bright for his taste, but the sun always lit up Clark’s hair perfectly, gilding his perfect smile as he-

Bruce shook his head, turning the molecular centrifuge on. It was _Superman_ , not Clark. Anyways, coming back to the original mystery. How had Ivy restrained Superman? Was Kryptonite involved? But Superman still had his powers. He didn’t look like he was in pain. In fact, he almost looked as if-

Bruce pushed the cowl back, sighing. Outside, thunder rumbled, as if Gotham was sighing with her guardian. The temperature in the Cave had dropped, Bruce was certain. He was also very, _very_ thirsty.

It wasn’t _right_ \- the way Superman had eyed Bruce, all glassy and lazy, when the Bat had glided in through window. But then he had shaken his head, as if clearing away the fog in his head. He even started tugging against the vines around his limbs, which surprisingly, gave way quiet easily. As if Superman hadn’t tried breaking free before.

Bruce ran an ion-identification test simultaneously on the lavender particles he had collected from the scene. The lattice structures were dangerously similar to kryptonite, but without a solid sample, he couldn’t confirm.

Taking down Poison Ivy had been easy- almost too easy, if you asked the paranoid Bat. She hadn’t put up much of a fight. A few hired muscles here and there. But something still didn’t add up. What was she doing in Metropolis?

 _“Certain businessman”_ , she had said. The building was owned by an offshore trading company, “coincidentally” a subsidiary of LexCorp. But would Luthor be so obvious? And if Luthor was indeed involved, it certainly meant that Superman was the intended target.

Speaking of Superman, where was he? Why hadn’t he checked in yet? Why had he held Ivy so close to his body when they had taken off, lips almost pressed into her hair, hand slowing inching down her back, fingers splaying right across the curve of her-

Bruce snapped back to reality. Where in the world had _that_ thought come from? He rubbed his eyes; they were starting to go a little hazy. Could be the effect of the serum. The medical analysis just showed a drop in core body temperature and a spike in certain hormones, but he couldn’t fully concentrate on what they were. He fed the necessary details to the medical terminal.

Water droplets dripped from the stalactites in the interior Cave, echoing in the emptiness. Bruce tried to focus on the medical algorithm that was currently extrapolating a formula to combat the serum he had swallowed, but all he could think of was how _cold_ he suddenly was. As if, Ivy’s kiss had created a vortex that was bleaching all of his body’s warmth, the cold settling at his fingertips and toes and deep in his bones. Surely, Clark and his stupid Kryptonian body would be radiating heat, as always. Maybe he could give Bruce another of his insufferable half hugs. Batman wouldn’t return it, of course. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the warmth for a few seconds.

He pressed his communicator _ON_ before he could stop himself. “Superman? Come-in Superman?”

Wait! He realised what he had done, eyes widening. No, he could still bring the situation under control; he was just checking in. Maybe the damned Metropolitan had got lost in the Gotham storm. Clark was clumsy like that.

The thought almost brought a smile to his face before he realized that Superman hadn’t replied. In the silence, all he heard was the bats fluttering in the shadows, and water, slowly dripping- _oh_ god, how thirsty he was-

“ _Bruce_?”

The fragrance hit him before he heard the hungry voice. _Parched_ , he was fucking parched, when he turned around to follow the voice- the smell- the _warmth._

Rainwater dripped down carved muscles in small rivulets, the blue and red uniform clinging like a second skin, and what wouldn’t Bruce give to lap up the tiny droplets, sucking Clark till he was bone dry.

“Bruce, I-”, Clark’s face was flushed, eyes hooded the same way they were in Metropolis. “It’s hot. _So_ hot, I can’t take it anymore,” he whispered. He touched down, just a few steps away from Bruce. The heat that he radiated was palpable.

Suddenly, it made sense. The gauntlets and boots had nanotech that heated internally to keep away frostbite, yet Bruce could feel his digits shivering. There was only one source of heat in the entire world that could keep him warm, and he- dear _God_ , he needed to touch.

“Superman.” He folded his hands into fists at his sides, swallowing. Clark’s eyes followed the line of his throat. His heart skipped another beat, fluttering as the ungodly blue eyes settled on his. In reply, Clark took a labored step forward. The light shifted and there was a unmistaken bulge in his tights that sent Bruce’s blood singing in his veins. He noticed that Clark’s hands were shaking. That sent a deep shiver down his own spine. Clark closed into his personal space.

Bruce didn’t stop him.

There was an shimmering droplet of water, slowly making its way down Clark’s neck, pooling down at the hollow of his throat. Bruce couldn’t swallow anymore; his throat was too dry to.

“It’s the serum,” he whispered, lips suddenly inches away from Clark’s. Warm breath ghosted over his face, and he wanted to touch, so bad. He pushed back towards the work table behind him. The metallic cold was nothing compared to his freezing hands, and he needed to touch.

Clark gently rested his forehead on top of his, their bodies almost touching. “I know.”

Bruce still didn’t stop him. Instead, he closed his eyes, drowning in the beautiful fragrance. He _had_ to touch. He slowly raised his hands, breathing heavily, his fingertips-

His fingertips were on fire from where Clark was suddenly holding onto them. No wait. Not holding his hands, but stopping him. Reality crashed back and Bruce opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh light, against the overwhelming beauty merely inches away. He pushed back against the cold metal, breaking contact.

“Bruce, I can’t,” Clark choked, but he still didn’t move away. Almost as if he didn’t want to-

No. Bruce willed his foolish heart to stop. To stop hoping. To stop dreaming. Clark wasn’t his. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t betray Clark, not like this. He shouldn’t betray _them._

“Go,” he gritted, turning his face away. _Go to her._ He couldn’t say that out loud, but he knew Clark would understand. If there was one person in the world who could understand his half-sentences even better than Alfred, it was Clark.

Instead, Clark pushed even closer, head ducking in, lips inches away from the neck Bruce had bared when he had turned his face away. He pushed a leg between Bruce’s, whose knees almost gave out when he felt the hardness pressing against his thigh.

Clark took a deep breath, and Bruce had to forcefully stop his body from arching into the touch.

“I can’t, it’s too much,” Clark whispered against his exposed skin. Bruce regretted taking off his cowl. “I can’t stop.” Bruce could feel the vibrations against his skin. “What if- what if I..?” Clark trailed off, pressing a feather light kiss against the cold skin.

_What if I break her?_

Oh.

Oh, now he understood. That’s why Superman was here. For _Batman’s_ help, not for Bruce. He snapped his head towards Clark, which was undoubtedly, a big mistake. Their noses bumped, and Clark drew back, surprised. Bruce gathered every inch of his willpower, and used that moment to push Clark away. It would probably take a freight train to push Superman away, but Clark moved anyways, brows furrowing.

Bruce took swift, shaking steps to the lead lined lockers. He took off a gauntlet, accessing the biometric locks. He heard Superman’s sharp intake of breath.

“Get out of my city,” the Bat growled, tossing a glowing red chunk of space rock behind his back. Superman caught it, but Bruce didn’t turn to face him. He couldn’t decide whether the pain was stronger than his arousal.

But even with the Red K out in the open, Superman moved fast. Fast enough to surprise a heartbroken Bruce, that is. When he heard the cape fluttering, Bruce thought he’d be left alone, cold and wanting. Instead he found himself pressed face first against the wall, Superman lined against his back, one leg pushing his legs apart, hips grinding sinfully. Superman pinned one of his hands on the wall, with the Kryptonite still in his grip, using the other hand to gently turn Bruce’s face towards him.

“Bruce,” he growled, lips touching. “I want _you_ , goddamnit.” 

* * *

 Later, Batman would be unsure whether to blame it on the serum or the _Periwinkle Kryptonite_ , as Ivy had put it. Or maybe it was entirely due to Superman cursing, he’ll never be able to confirm.

Later, Bruce would be surprised that even after _four_ fucking rounds (pun not intended), he wanted more. Not his body, his body seemed sated, but something deeper inside. Something he didn’t want to contemplate further.

Later, Clark Kent of the Daily Planet would receive beautiful crystal orchids, in a lead lined box carefully packed with expensive paper, hidden amongst various other presents from the Planet. “ _Happy Birthday. B.”_ the beautiful cursive would say _._ And Bruce would try to decipher his expressions, hidden in the shadows. But the light would play across the dorky glasses, and Bruce would be left unsure of what he saw. But he knew Clark would recognise the Red K. He would know never to turn to Bruce again. He could have all that he wanted, with Lois herself.

Later, Bruce would dismissively grunt every time Superman brought up the night. He would learn to use the regret and guilt to push himself even harder, promising never to fail Superman like this again.

But right now, Bruce simply turned in Superman’s grip, finally lapping up that annoying water droplet from the hollow in his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex pollen and aphrodisiac space rocks are my favorite combo, honk if you agree. :P  
> Red K in this universe simply dampens Superman's powers. You know, giving him the opportunity to "bang bang bang" anyway he wants, anyone he wants.  
> Periwinkle K (that actually exists, whoa), is supposed to "turn Superman gay". (God bless them comic book writers, even though that really doesn't make sense. Superman is always a little gay for Batman, come oooon.) But in this 'verse, it inhibits resistance. More explanation in later chapters.


	7. The Picture of Bruce Wayne

> Bruce was a cold, windy night in sleepless Gotham. The neon lights reflected in the puddles, but nobody there to notice the vibrant ripples in the overlooked alleys. Broken mirror shards from a bar fight, slowly falling, glistening in the 2 am lights. Footsteps hurrying home to warmth, worn umbrellas keeping out the cold rain, and the rain –oh. Silver pellets falling in slow motion, kissing the wings of a flock of ravens seeking shelter, polishing the newly engraved tombstone of a still born baby, washing away the blood from the hooker stabbed near the dumpster, her heartbeat slowing, syncing with the lazy bass of the club she used to work at, and then fading into death’s standstill.
> 
> Bruce was a semi-forgotten dream, the kind which you could only remember glimpses of after waking up, hauntingly beautiful, but out of reach. Like the beautiful black-and-white movies you had to save up your pocket money for an entire week to afford in your teenage days. That was what being with Bruce was like, the colors of the world slowing washing away in the afore-mentioned rain, leaving the world with only black and white and shades of grey and silver- the colors of the soul. No hues to differentiate the skin tones of a wealthy banker and a hungry laborer, to tell apart the brunette lock of hair belonging to the abused, single mother of two, from the red head of the drug addicted rock star, to discriminate the pretense in the green eyes of the bully in middle school from the fear in the blue eyes of the kidnapped seven year old.
> 
> Bruce was the champagne sloshing in the flute he carelessly cradled in his fingers during one of his charity events, the way he smoothly leaned into your personal space so that you could smell his spicy perfume, the deliberateness with which his fingers caressed the skin exposed by backless gowns and loosened collar buttons. He was the music of the string quartet playing the song requested by the duchess visiting the country, the wine stain on the white glove of the waiter serving the hors d’oeuvre, the gentle breeze created by the rustle of the skirts of the women spinning on the dance floor. He was half-lidded gaze he gave you from across the hall, conversing with the Asian model and the Russian delegate, laughing at their empty words, but eyes only on you, and the way you fumbled pronouncing the Italian dishes, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. He was dark satin sheets, heirloom cuff-links taken off as carefully as carelessly the golden stilettos are thrown across the floor. He was the measured glance thrown in your direction as he moved sinfully on plush bedding, as if he knew you are watching from miles up in the stratosphere.
> 
> Bruce was the excitement of the valet driving Bruce Wayne’s Royce to his private jet, the Greek art decorating the empty corridors of the Wayne Manor, the sharp edges of the _Wayne Enterprises_ logo on the underside of his chopper, the Armani coat he gently put on the shivering body of the child sleeping under the makeshift cardboard roof, the loyalty of the household staff at his French chateau, all previously rejected by the society. He was the anonymous donations made to shelter houses and orphanages and libraries and ocean cleaning groups. He was the page three scandals and photoshoped images and successful flirtations directed at the most offending reporters.
> 
> Bruce was the purr of the Batmobile revving in the empty cave, the sharpness of his Batarangs, the rust free hooks of his grapple gun, the Tai Chi breathing exercises he used to control his heart rate, the white LED lenses that gave the Bat a supernatural glare. He was the insane obsession with which his psychotic enemies kept coming back, and endless dedication that made the Bat rise after every unsuccessful dawn. He was the stories his scars told, stitches and burns and bite marks and bullet holes. He was the cape stretching into bat-wings in its frames, the indentations the armour left on his skin, the way the cowl matted his sweaty hair down, the one compartment in his utility belt holding a cracked pearl and piece of fabric. He was the steady white light of the bat-signal on the terrace of the GCPD headquarters, and the blinking red and blue of the patrol cars at the crime scene. Bruce was the nightmares that kept him up all night, and the nightmares he gave to the criminals of Gotham.

Bruce was… stifling back his moans as Clark’s mouth moved lower and lower, hair spilling on the soft pillows, body arching into the touch, fingers moving to clutch Clark’s hair, guiding him.

He was beautiful. Painstakingly so.

* * *

> At first, it was the pain Bruce emitted that had dragged Clark closer and closer, like a magnet. Bruce was a foreign song; Clark didn’t understand the words, but he understood why the voice of the singer cracked at every verse. Clark had honed his senses to save everyone he came across, and Bruce’s scars and broken bones and broken soul were the chorus in the song of pain.
> 
> Clark’s dictionary didn’t process phrases like “I don’t need your help” or “Get out of my city” or even “Leave me alone, alien”. Instead, to his super senses, they translated to “Help me”, “I don’t want to hurt you” and “ _Stay_ ”. And so he stayed, hovering as close as he could without disturbing the Bat.

Probably even _now,_ Bruce would deny their friendship. But Clark, who had Bruce's hard length in his mouth, knew better now. He knew they had something. He knew it because of the way Bruce had pulled him up for a kiss, fingers knotting in his hair painfully.

> Afterwards, it was the dedication, the determination, the _resolve_ with which Bruce gave his everything to protect his city. _His_ city indeed; Wayne Enterprises owned more than half of the companies, the logo of W.E. stamped on so many buildings, the Prince of Gotham smiling from magazine covers and front pages of so many newspapers. And the areas that the bling and ka-ching of the Waynes couldn’t touch? That, the Bat owned. The alleys and warehouses and dumpsters and slums. The silent guardian, watching over his city, with his face as grim as the stone gargoyles he crouched beside.
> 
> And one day, Clark realized, he was in love with Gotham too. Watching over Bruce somehow made him protective of the sad magic that was Gotham. The Gothic arches and glistening skyscrapers and obscene graffiti and dark alleys that harbored knife-yielding criminals. The masks of bank robbers and the painted faces of prostitutes in the red-light areas, they all defined the Bat just as much as the luxurious suites and fancy restaurants defined Bruce Wayne. It was nothing like the sun-lit Metropolis, and yet Gotham fascinated Clark like an exotic Goddess, and he couldn’t keep away.
> 
> And as if the said Goddess had blessed him, Bruce invited him to his Manor. They weren’t even “allies” yet, which Bruce kept reminding him, and Superman was sure Batman would find a deserted warehouse for their rendezvous, but when he realized the invitation to Wayne Manor was for Clark Kent, he was at a loss of words. What should he wear? Should he take something with him? He definitely should. Ma had raised him with enough manners to know not to go empty-handed to a man’s home, but what could he give to _Bruce_ _freaking_ _Wayne_? Flowers were always the solution, his Pa had said. And so flowers it was. Roses and carnations and tulips seemed too… date-ish, and when he saw them, the lilies, they had seemed to glow in the sun. Standing independently in the corner, as if the flowers were watching Clark make a decision. They reminded him of Bruce, graceful and tranquil, and so he had settled on lilies. Lilies would look good with Bruce, as if they somehow belonged together.
> 
> Bruce Wayne had been posturing as the lead alpha, but when he saw the lilies, something cracked in his eyes and for a minuscule moment, Clark saw the man underneath the monster.

Later, Clark would realize that this was the moment he fell in love with Bruce Wayne.

* * *

> Life was good with Lois; she was as dedicated to her work during daytime as she was to Clark during the nights. He admired everything about her: her courage, her kindness, her loyalty, her honest, open face. He loved the adrenaline rush some of Lois’ misadventures brought. He loved her dirty jokes. Overall, he was satisfied with life.

But Clark realised that he didn't want to be _just_ satisfied. He wanted more from life. 

> It wasn’t until he saw Bruce jump into a ring of flesh eating aliens that he realised what true courage was. It was Bruce who took his side when the entire league had turned against Superman, and showed him the real meaning of the word loyalty. Batman was just as kind to unlawful teens as Bruce Wayne was to the children at his orphanages, even though they both had very, _very_ unconventional ways of showing their love. Clark realised that he loved deciphering each of Bruce’s masks: the _Brucie Wayne_ , the _Batman_ , the _Matches Malone_ , and the list went on and on.
> 
> Everything that he loved about Lois, with Bruce it was accentuated to a higher level. As if Bruce could climb that one last step and finally reach Clark, as if he could give Superman a taste of everything the rest of humanity couldn’t. And Clark greedily drank everything he got. The claustrophobic taste of fear when Batman held kryptonite-laced weapons against his temples (things were wildly different between them in the beginning). The embarrassed heat of a blush on his face when Brucie had flirted with him in a hall full of Gotham’s richest. The short circuit in his heartbeat when Bruce had first spoken in Kryptonian –Bruce kept insisting it was to increase their advantage in a battlefield, but Clark had perfect recall; he remembered Batman being in the same room when he was complaining about being the only one who spoke the language of his people.
> 
> With Bruce, he didn’t feel lonely. With Bruce, he didn’t feel like an outsider. Sure, he had friends. Clark Kent had friends, and so did Superman, but the intersection in the Venn diagram of these two circles was very slim. There was Lois, and his parents, of course, and a handful of others, but all of them, on one level or other, remembered that he was a solar powered alien who didn’t truly _belong._ Batman was the only one who glared at him through his white LED lenses, glared at him –at the man who had heat vision- on a daily basis and threatened to “hang him by his cape from the _Planet_ globe if he ever flapped his feathers in Gotham again”.

Clark still “flapped his feathers” there, and hadn’t suffered any bodily harm at the hands of the paranoid Bat, _yet._

> Bruce was the only man who had agreed to train with him, and the only man who was smart enough to devise a method to make that possible too: red sun lamps. Bruce was probably the one who had told Alfred how much Clark loved blueberry muffins so that there were plenty for dessert to feed a horde of elephants each time Superman visited the manner. (Clark was a little unsure though; maybe Alfred was a secret ninja who had figured it out himself. He’d never know.)
> 
> Bruce was the only one who had brought him face to face with fear and embarrassment and nervousness and surprise and gratefulness and all the other human emotions Clark hadn’t really been intimate with, previously. His favourite, however, was the _happiness_ that blossomed in his chest every time he tried to make the Bat laugh –Clark knew Bruce loved his lame jokes: his heartbeat would speed up, just for a second, and Bruce would huff inaudibly. Of course, his superhearing would catch that. And if Clark was being really cheesy, Bruce’s lips would quirk up on one side, just the fraction of a centimetre, but it would amplify thousand-fold into this overwhelming warmth in Clark’s chest. Like liquid sunlight that powered up his veins.

With Bruce, he felt at home.

* * *

> Clark knew he liked Bruce, but he didn’t realize the extent of his emotions until Poison Ivy kidnapped him. He wasn’t _kidnapped_ , per se, just held against his will. Um, not that either, technically. There was something wrong in the air; he had realized this the moment he had stepped onto the thirteenth floor. In fact, the more he breathed in the sweet smell, the more he liked the pastel tone in his vision.
> 
> And when Ivy had taken him by his hand, he had simply …gone with her. When he felt the vines tightening around his wrists, he didn’t even try to break free. It was because… he knew that Bruce would come to rescue him. He just wanted to see Bruce again, without coming up with excuses to encroach the Bat’s territory.
> 
> And very soon, as if on cue, he heard Bruce’s steady heartbeat close by. Always punctual; he didn’t expect anything else from his Knight anyways. (Now, Clark wasn’t sure if he had said that part out loud, but who was going to hear it anyways, right?)
> 
> Bruce was beautiful in the pastel sunlight, and Clark really hadn’t seen the Bat come out of the dark a lot, but instead of looking ridiculous, he looked lethal. Wings stretched out and body poised in a fighting stance, he looked venomous, like deadly nightshade. And yet, Clark wanted to kiss him, right then and there.
> 
> That’s when he realised that something was _seriously_ not right, and he needed to snap out of it.  Nonetheless, he could only fight the combined effects of Poison Ivy’s aphrodisiac serum and periwinkle Kryptonite for so long. He didn’t like the way Ivy had flirted with his Bruce, kissed his Bruce. He was holding Ivy close to his body when she revealed her secret and told him to rush to his sweetheart as soon as he could. Or he could take _her_ , she wouldn’t mind. She still had the sweet nectar-like serum glistening on her lips. But here’s the thing, her touch was burning him. It wasn’t right.
> 
> He had hurried to his apartment, to Lois, but as he stepped closer to her sleeping form, Clark could feel heat radiating off her as well. As if she would burn him too. This wasn’t right either; he knew it in his heart. His suit was suffocating; he needed to take it off. Everything was _too_ _hot_. In his lust-laden fever, it suddenly made sense. He knew where to go. He knew whom to go to.
> 
> Gotham welcomed him with storm clouds showering him with cold kisses, but it was not enough. He could almost feel the rain drops vaporizing as they touched his body. When he saw Bruce shivering inside the cold cave, all the doubts that he previously didn’t know he had, disappeared. It all fit together, like a beautiful puzzle. This was who he wanted; even his body couldn’t deny that. Bruce was who he had always wanted.
> 
> Bruce kept telling him to go back to Metropolis. Luckily, Clark had good experience in deciphering Bat-talk, and he could read the hunger in the eyes of the other man. Bruce wanted this, by some _freaking_ _miracle_ , Bruce wanted him. Alright, that miracle was probably Ivy’s serum, designed to work on humans as effectively as aliens. But Clark couldn’t bring himself to care.
> 
> And then Bruce Wayne, _World’s Greatest Detective_ , thought Clark had gone to Batman because he needed help with Lois. Clark would’ve laughed out loud if it weren’t for the way Bruce had been staring at his lips. To be honest, he hadn’t even thought of whether he’d be able to keep his body under control. (What? Planning ahead was Batman’s forte, Superman liked to cross bridges when he came to them.) His mind was a careless litany of _Bruce Bruce Bruce._ Bruce still had his back towards him, and that’s when Clark saw the back of neck, his _bare_ neck, the cowl that usually covered the skin pulled back, dark hair gently coiling into soft curls at the nape, and somehow, that was the last straw. Clark couldn’t hold himself back. Bruce, his beautiful, courageous, stubborn, _oblivious_ Bruce sometimes needed more than words to understand the situation. He pushed Bruce against the wall, grinding against him to show him _how_ _much_ he wanted. Whom he wanted.
> 
> The first time, in the Cave, was the aphrodisiacs working. Clark supersped them to the main bedroom for round two; his Kryptonian biology could never be satisfied with a single round. The third time, oh, _oh, the third time,_ he realised why anyone and everyone wanted to spend their nights with Bruce Wayne. And the fourth… The fourth time wasn’t really necessary. The effects of the serum had faded away, Clark could feel it. And yet, neither of them said anything when he kissed Bruce slowly, kissed him until the sun slowly lighted up the scars on his body, his eyelashes casting long, diaphanous shadows across his face as his eyes fluttered close when Clark pushed into him.
> 
> The midday sun had woken him up to an empty bed, and an empty heart.
> 
> Things had changed, and no matter how much the either of them pretended, they couldn’t go back to what they were before. Clark tried to talk about it, but staying on topic with Bruce was as difficult as finding out how Alfred really knew about the blueberry muffins. Clark tried to explain how much it meant to him, how he could always count on Bruce, how much he wanted to do it again, and again, and again. But really, was there any proper way to put _that_ into words?
> 
> In the end, he had never used the red kryptonite orchids with Lois. Oh, he wanted to lose control, be human and give everything he got, he really did. He wanted to feel tremors and breathlessness and orgasms the way he did that night. He wanted to make love with an equal; he was tired of being superhuman in bed, tired of holding back. But he couldn’t bring himself to use the orchids… they were the same crystals that had made that night with Bruce possible. He felt that if he took the flowers out of the lead box, they would somehow lose their magic, their essence, of that one night of madness.
> 
> He didn’t understand what this was. Why he couldn’t trust Lois with the red K the way he trusted Bruce. Why Bruce seemed to caress him with his eyes, giving him long lingering looks wherever he thought Clark wasn’t looking. Why Bruce’s heart would skip beats when they were close, and why he could pick out Bruce’s heart so easily, no matter where on Earth he was. Why there was this insatiable pain in his chest whenever he saw Bruce turn away from him, cowl hiding the neck line and soft curls at the nape.
> 
> “Because you’re in love.”
> 
> Apparently Lois understood. That Clark was in love. Not with her, but someone else. She didn’t know the details of that night, just that Clark had been physical with someone else. But she said that it had started long before that, she could tell. The passion Clark had, it wasn’t for her, but someone else. She had thought that it would pass, that she could keep pretending that things were going to be alright.
> 
> But seeing Clark brooding was breaking her too. She was going to make things easier for Clark; she would stop pretending now. But Clark would need to let her go.

* * *

> Clark realized that he had not only lost his girl, but one of his closest friends. More than the pain of this loss was the pain of the knowledge that he had hurt Lois. He should’ve let her go a long time ago, but he was afraid. He was afraid of being all alone again. Bruce would never see him like _that_ , that much was obvious. He couldn’t lose Lois too.
> 
> He held onto her, did his best to hold onto her. But Clark now realized that he had let go of Lois the day he saw the lilies reflect back in the silver-blue eyes of Bruce Wayne.
> 
> And so he was aimlessly flying around the globe, eyes full of guilt, heart bleeding with emptiness, cheeks now damp with tear streaks, when he ran into his old friend. Blond hair, blue eyes, a God on Earth, literally.
> 
> “You need a drink, brother,” his friend said. “I have something that can make you forget your anguish. I- I don’t lie!” he said when Clark raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. He wasn't sure if he had heard the softly whispered  _"a lot"_ correctly or not.

* * *

> Aesirs don’t lie, indeed. The more he felt the intoxication settling in his body, the more humane he felt. If he could get drunk like a human being, he could also do other things, especially in bed. Just like _that_ night, his super-senses tuned down. It was just the bass of the club, the pain in his chest, and the purr of the Batmobile turning towards the Cave. It was doing something to him, this feeling of _being human_.
> 
> His vision blurred a little, but if he closed his eyes and focused, he could hear Bruce softly exhale. His mouth watered. Oh _Rao,_ how much he wanted that man!
> 
> Clark knew he was drunk (this is what being drunk felt like!), but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He might've giggled a little. And when the scantily clad ladies asked for a dance, he couldn’t care enough to say no. Anything to distract him from the pain. The emptiness. And- _oh!_ These women sure knew how to excite him at the correct places.
> 
> _And then they promised that they could take care of him._
> 
> He didn’t mind trying. Anything to keep his mind away from Lois and …Bruce.
> 
> He wanted Bruce so much.
> 
> "You should call him, darlin," the dark haired woman in his lap whispered.
> 
> Now, Clark wasn't sure how this stranger knew about Bruce, but _eh._ She was right. Maybe Bruce wouldn’t mind joining him for a drink, his heartbeat was steady after all. When Clark turned on his comms, the bulge in his pants seemed to agree.

* * *

Clark had his lips pressed against Bruce’s neck, when something clicked into place. He pulled his fingers out, dripping with lube. Bruce gasped audibly.

“Bruce,” he softly whispered, rising on his elbows, lining himself against Bruce, whose body seemed eager to take him in. Bruce’s eyes were silver in the dark room, hooded with lust when he met his gaze.

“Do you love me?” Clark asked as he pushed all in, up to the hilt. Bruce’s moan sounded dangerously like a _yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for naming this "friend" :P


	8. Attack of the telepathic ducks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using humor to cope with horrifying incidents is an old, but proven technique. It is a common psychological tactic used by army personnel, of course. Whether to deal with past tragedies- depression, death - or to gather courage to work with an unbelievable present, or to face a terrible future, it is not a question of insensitivity, it is a matter of sanity. That being said, with everything the Dark Knight faces each day, Bat-Sarcasm has developed into something else, has ascended to a higher level. If it were to have its own stand-up comedy show, I'm sure it'd win awards. But sadly (oh, the irony), Dark Humor is not everyone's cup of tea.  
> This was worth mentioning because Yours Truly believes that Bat-Sarcasm is the real protagonist of the chapter.

_“I can’t betray you again.”_

The world went black.  

 

* * *

   

 

>   _Eldirao?”_ The woman with the beautiful curls asked, her soft voice echoing in the huge temple. “But isn’t it..I mean, how?”
> 
> “The child chooses its [Guardian] long before stepping into this life,” the veiled Priestess answered stoutly. “Don’t worry, Lady El,” she said, voice softening after seeing the worry on the to-be mother’s face. “Your child is blessed by Rao and loved by Yuda. This fate is one in a million.”
> 
> But the devotee couldn’t stop worrying. How could her child’s guardian be the one thing that needed the moon to survive? The one thing that was now extinct?
> 
>  

* * *

 

When Bruce Wayne decides upon something, no one can make him change his mind. Not butlers who play the role of a father figure. Not Themiscyrian goddesses who wield the Lasso of Truth, literally. And unfortunately, not even blue-eyed aliens with hearts of gold.

Bruce however, had one weakness that unleashed his Pandora’s box.

 

* * *

 

Bruce Wayne was undoubtedly the most stubborn man in the world. In the universe, in fact, if one were to the credit the words of Clark Kent, Reporter from Daily Planet, (also resident of a dead-planet far, far away). He wasn’t _stupid_ , though. He knew that the fever making his vision swim was the aftereffect of Scarecrow’s latest serum. Of course he had taken an anti-dote. The rest, his body could heal itself. He didn’t have time to wait and rest. Not when the world was in danger. Especially not when Superman was off-planet with most of the prominent members of the League.

Hacking into the Mothership was no big deal. He had accounted for the Alpha and Beta teams to be countered by the rest of the League members. He handled the Delta team guarding the main chambers. Of course the telepathic aliens _had_ to take off mid fight, like every other clichéd action movie sequence. So, when cornered, he did what they did in the said clichéd movies: he released the cargo door, hurling aliens out one by one. Ironical, really, he used their own photonic laser gun ( _‘more like a Light Saber and a Bazooka combined!’ as the Flash mentions later)_ to push them towards the edge. These aliens had the ability to fly for short distances, like ducks, so they didn’t really get eliminated, but Batman had noticed that moving away from the Mothership weakened them. Something he’d analyse later.

Like ducks. Something Clark would laugh at. Bruce smiled a little, face red with fever.

He was getting tired now, sweat running into his eyes, limbs leaden. It was probably because of this, his fever-addled brain miscalculated the recoil of the Light Saber-Bazooka (‘ _that doesn’t even make sense’, Hawkgirl rolls her eyes at the Flash)._ It could be because he was favoring his right side -the blade had missed any major organs, but the wound would leave a scar. Or it could be because of staying on the Mothership of _telepathic_ ducks, Bruce wasn’t sure. Anyhow, the impact of the blast propelled him out of the ship and he started coveting the flight of the ducks too. He mentally ticked off his options.

He missed the tall buildings of Gotham; his grapple gun had no use in the bright green corn fields he had diverted the ship to. None of the League members with flight abilities were nearby. The Javelin was with Nightwing, on the far side of the country. This was the end of the Batman- splattered on the side of a cornfield like a fly while wishing he had chosen to become Duckman. The ground was approaching fast, and he was falling.

Falling.

* * *

 

The day he fell, was the day he fell in love. Falling in love with the man who brought him lilies was not a good idea. Bruce couldn’t control his heart, but fortunately, he could control the flow of a conversation as much as he wanted.

Of course he was in love with Clark. Thank Diana’s gods that it had taken Clark forever to figure that out. Even Dick had figured it out before Clark (or Bruce for that matter. It had taken Bruce almost the same amount of time as it did Clark. But he had noticed Dick acting weirdly whenever he was in the same room with Bruce and Clark. As if he was in on a secret the rest of them weren’t). And when Clark asked it like that, his body glowing in soft firelight, emotions swirling in his eyes like the Northern lights, Bruce couldn’t look away, couldn’t lie. He had almost admitted.

Almost _._

Manipulating Clark was easy. And manipulation was the one skill the Batman was an expert in. Drunk Superman never stood a chance against Brucie’s fluid body movements that _‘even made succubi jealous’,_ as the Gazette Gossip once declared. Clark Kent and his life-altering questions (he was a reporter at heart now, wasn’t he?) never stood a chance against the way Bruce kissed him. For once, it wasn’t Brucie, but Bruce who kissed him. After that the only sounds coming out of Clark’s mouth were mono-syllabic.

Bruce had pretty much ignored him since that incident. They did get into a fight once _(Bruce’s mantra: offense is the best defense)_ , and that resulted in Superman leaving for an off-planet mission to X’harr, on the other side of the galaxy.

And here Bruce was, falling. Falling, and his secret would be safe with him forever.

 

* * *

 

Not a single water body in sight, Bruce tried to manoeuvre his body away from the rocky landscape, diving headfirst. At least he could die a fast, painless death. No gain in breaking his limbs and dying a slow death from blood loss. Hah! Would the newspapers call him ‘ _Flatman’_ after this?

The sun-kissed earth in his view reminded him of Clark. Of course it did, everything reminded him of Clark. Maybe it was because it had been a while since he was surrounded by such... openness. The lukewarm sunshine and the cold wind on his face soothed his fevered body. He could almost smell the wet earth, the farm-fresh manure, the husky fragrance which belonged to only person in the world. Wait, what?

“Hi, Bruce.”

Superman glided down head-first, parallel to him. He was falling too, Bruce realized, but instead of wild panic on his face, unlike Batman’s, it was mild confusion and a personal smile. Ah, some hallucination from the fever, Bruce realized. This cowl was not lead-lined, and he knew that Clark could see the lazy smile Bruce gave him. This only furthered Clark’s confusion. A small line appeared between his eyebrows. If Bruce were a lovestruck teenage girl, he’d have kissed it away.

If not the real one, maybe Bruce could tell this hallucination why he couldn’t –nay, _shouldn’t_ \- love the Man of Steel.

 

* * *

 

Whenever Bruce had a high fever, he talked. A lot. There was no stopping him. It was as if all the words Bruce didn’t use every day came tumbling out in his trance-like fever. It was something Martha had adored a lot, albeit worrying about the fever at the same time. It was why young Bruce, sleep-deprived, nightmare leaden, had told Alfred how much the old butler meant to him. (It was the only time Bruce had used words.) It was why the young trainee with troubled eyes had told his Master that he had stolen food on the first night he was admitted to the Academy. It was why one night, Bruce had self-deprecatingly mumbled “ _I’ m the Batman_ ” to a Greek model on his arm, who had claimed to be in love with the Dark Knight. She proceeded to laugh and kiss him nonetheless. Alfred had him extracted before he could show her the Cave, his failings and his mistakes, encased in glass.

After that, Bruce had decided never to let his body reach that level of fever. He had serums and antidotes custom-made for this very reason. And, yet.

 

>  “-You mean so much. I will not do this to you-“ 

 

* * *

 

Bruce woke up to mild sunshine and the fragrance of lilies.

Oh, _no._

Memories floated around like fireflies, and he ransacked his brain, trying to remember how he ended up between the silk sheets of his bedroom at the Manor.

 

>  “-Clark, you need to know-“

No. _No_. Not even Diana’s gods could save him now. Bruce kept his eyes shut, praying to the said Gods that the room was empty. Of course, knowing Clark-

“Bruce, I think you might have a slight obsession with Diana’s gods,” Clark said gently. Dreadfully, Bruce opened his eyes. The gossamer curtains were drawn, but Clark still looked out of the wall-length windows, eyes on some far away city. Probably looking for kitties stuck on trees.

Bruce narrowed his eyes, wondering if Superman had developed the mind-reading abilities while Bruce was conked out.

Slowly, Clark stepped away from the sunlight, moving towards the bed. Torturosly slow, as if giving Bruce the option to throw him out. Seemed like the tempting idea, but Bruce needed to know.

“Bruce, did you know that you, uh. Talk, when you-?” Clark seemed concerned, but he knew Bruce enough not to mention the fever, or other such trivialities.

 

>  “-You have the kindest eyes, how could you not _see-“_

“How?” Bruce croaked, cutting of Clark. He coughed, and then reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. That’s when he noticed the big bouquet of lilies. They looked fresh. Not fresh-from-the-florist’s fresh, but fresh from the fields. The dewdrops slowly caressed the petals as time slowed again. His heart skipped a beat and he blamed it on the fever. (The fever was almost gone now, but Bruce was feeling a little indulgent.) How had he not seen the flowers before? This must be Clark’s degrading-detective rays working again, diminishing Bruce’s observation skills, as always.

For a second Bruce was worried about how Clark would start explaining _how Bruce had “talked”._ If that happened, he’d probably break the glass on his own forehead and hope for a concussion. Maybe he could pretend to pass out and wake up when Superman left.

Thank Diana’s Gods- er, thankfully, Clark knew him better that that.

“I couldn’t stay, I came back to.. I mean, the X’harr delegates had signed the peace treaty. They hosted this elaborate ceremony to celebrate their bonds with Earth and I didn’t want to.. I mean, without.. you know?” Clark was babbling, and suddenly, Bruce _knew._ “So I came back. I thought J’onn and Diana and the League could handle the rest. I mean. I wanted to-“

 _To apologize,_ Bruce knew. This was Clark, same old, same old.

“And the first thing I see when I reach Earth is you falling of that silly spaceship. I mean, really, Bruce?” Clark gave him a disbelieving look. Bruce maintained his poker face.

Bruce wanted to ask about the secrets he had spilled, but couldn’t bring himself to.

Again, Clark knew him better.

“So I blew up the ship’s main reactor and then I came to you. I got a little late, sorry about that,” Clark smiled sheepishly. “And then you start talking about teenage schoolgirls and ducks, and I knew something was wrong.”

Oh, no. Bruce had said all _that_? What else had he mentioned? Not the Flatman, dear God, no.

“At first, I thought it was mind control, because, let’s admit it, when are your sentences longer that two words-” here Bruce glared a little, “but the diagnosis chamber just declared fever.” Clark looked genuinely relieved. “So I took the prescribed medicines and brought you to the Manor. Alfred would know the best, I thought.” Clark shrugged. “When I told him about the uh, talking, he just.” Clark tilted his head, looking helpless.

Bruce frowned.

Clark didn’t speak after that. The shadows from the lace curtains danced on the floor.

“You said,” Clark finally whispered after an eternity, answering Bruce’s unasked question. “You said that you were bad with words. If only you could steal, and I quote here, ‘ _your stupid reporter friend’s words’._ I mean, assuming you’re not talking about Cat, Bruce, I don’t know whether I should be glad that you called me a friend, or insulted?” His voice was at a higher pitch on the last word.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, willing Clark to continue. Wasn’t this the first time Bruce had called Clark his friend? Hopefully, Clark would let it slide without throwing a party.

“You said you needed words,” Clark gently sat at the edge of the bed. Close, yet so far away. “To tell Martha how much she meant to you.”

Bruce averted his eyes. _Oh_. Yes, that.

“You said how you thought Dick was funny most of the times, but you’ll never say that out loud.” Clark was smiling when Bruce looked at him. “You asked how I kept track of you. No Bruce, not smell,” Clark blushed. “I, uh. Listen for your heartbeat.”

“My heart?” Bruce asked. Said heart skipped a beat. Of course. How had he not seen this before? _That_ detective-degrading ray. He mentally narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, I, well. I can recognize some heartbeats. Ma’s. Jimmy’s. Lo-”, Clark caught himself before he could finish her name. “And yours too,” he whispered.

Bruce made a conscious effort to slow down his heart now. Clark was full-on blushing. The sunlight moved across to floor towards the bed, where Clark sat. The Sun couldn’t hold herself back, greedily touching Clark; how could Bruce?

“And then you told me that I had to know _why._ I didn’t know that _what_ , but you had to tell me why.”

 

>  “I can’t betray you again.”

“Why, Bruce?” Clark’s eyes were piercing in the diffused sunlight.

“Because I will not betray you again,” Bruce said slowly. Since he had already said half the things, better finish this chapter as soon as possible. “That night, I already did it once. I betrayed you, and Lois. Clark,” his voice broke a little, and Clark opened his mouth to say something. He didn’t. “I will not betray you again by falling in love with you,” Bruce finished cruelly. As if that hadn’t happened already. As if he wasn’t madly in love already.

Surprisingly, Clark did not jump into defense, as Bruce had expected. He just sat there, sunlight glowing off his back.

Bruce couldn’t stand the silence. He needed Clark to react, to end this, to fly away, to hate him. He needed an excuse to teach his stupid heart a lesson. He needed Clark to hate him so that he could hate him back. “Clark, I am bad luck. Why don’t you see? The fates don’t favor someone like me. You should stay away. All I attract is death. The darkness-its poison." He knew he was getting desperate now. What was he even talking about? Fate? Darkness? Death? Was he the heroine of a Victorian tragedy?

Now Clark was smiling. Surely, he thought Bruce was losing it. But didn’t he see? Clark should stay away before Bruce’s ill-fate infected him too. Bruce didn’t deserve love. Bruce didn’t deserve Clark.

Minutes passed, turning Bruce restless.

 _“Eldirao,”_ Clark said when Bruce opened his mouth again. He clicked it shut. “You’re my Fate, Bruce. You are my  [Guardian].”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clark uses Kryptonian for [Guardian].


	9. Star of Rao

Gotham clouds swirled in the sky like wine swirling lazily in the hands of a broken heart. They gathered around the sun;it was time to blot out the light. Later, Bruce would wonder if Clark had stolen away the sun with him when he flew away.

* * *

Clark sat at the edge of the bed, smiling at Bruce like he was in on some big secret. Like he wanted to share. Like he was deciding where to begin his story from.

“Bruce,” he said. His voice was bittersweet wine. The winds sighed outside, so did Bruce’s heart, inside. “Why did you give me the orchids?” Clark asked, instead of giving any explanations.

Bruce frowned at him. “You know why.” It pained him to answer; Clark knew _why._ He knew what the Kryptonite was for. So that Clark never had to come to Bruce. “Do I really have to list the effects of Red Kryptonite on a Kryptonian?” Bruce asked, gritting his teeth.

“What? No, no!” Clark tried again. “I mean why _orchids_ specifically?”

Bruce thought for a while. He realized, for the first time in a long time, he had no answer. “I just thought.. orchids-“ _are made for you_ “-suited you,” Bruce finished. “Why is any of this relevant?” he tried changing the topic.

Clark’s smile just widened, as if Bruce had given the correct answer. “You’ll know soon.” He reached back to his cape and retrieved something small from the folds of the crimson fabric.

“I found some pages of my mother’s journal when I was messing with the Fortress’s systems one day,” Clark said. _Mother’s,_ not _Ma’s._ Lara Jor-El. Bruce raised an eyebrow. “That's where I first heard about it. _Eldirao._ I did some digging and found bits of information, here and there. It was a little disappointing at first, but then-” Clark suddenly paused, sitting up straight, ears angled to a certain direction in a canine fashion. “Then you gave me orchids,” he finished, distracted.

He turned to Bruce with a regrettable frown on his face.

“Go,” Bruce said, nodding.

“Tsunami. Japan,” Clark said, half his attention on cries from across the world. Bruce didn't need to _hear_ them to recognize despair and helplessness. Clark stood up and turned to leave. But then he came back to Bruce, taking his hand. “You're a detective, and a skeptic. I think you'd rather see it for yourself, than let me explain.” Superman had left the room before Bruce could realize that he had pressed something into his palms before flying away. It was a ring.

Outside, the clouds swallowed the sun.

* * *

The ring was silver gold, with a specific Celtic-like organic pattern that told Bruce it was from Krypton. Jor-El’s? The metallic vines framed a tiny symbol of the House of El. Bruce ran his thumb over the Sapphire-like stone, on which the symbol was etched. The ring started glowing.

“What the-?” He held the ring in his palm. The tiny band threw out a ray of light, which assembled into a H.U.D. By Diana’s Gods! It was a Kryptonian flash drive! Transferring it to his left palm, Bruce scrolled through the various documents it displayed on a holographic screen. It was a compilation of research on the mysterious Eldirao, by Clark Kent, reporter.

Extracts from ancient texts, pages from Lara’s journal, and clippings from Krypton’s equivalent of newspapers, all in Krptonian, of course. Bruce selected one, and magnified it, sitting straighter to read it. The first one was a small poem.

 

 

> _“Tell me the story_
> 
> _About how the sun_
> 
> _Loved the moon so much,_
> 
> _He died every night_
> 
> _To let her breathe.”_
> 
>  
> 
> -Ancient Kryptonian Folk song.

 

Bruce turned to the next page.

 

 

> “The Legend of Eldirao
> 
>  
> 
> It is said that long ago, Rao, god of all things masculine, all things golden, god of the Sun, fell in love. She was embodiment of femininity, princess of the stars, daughter of the night. She was Yuda, goddess of the Moon, and _his_ high priestess. She worshipped him, and took his mantle at night to spread his light in the darkest corners. But he was the sun, fire and hope, the highest point in the sky, and she was merely icy moonbeams and the stillness of night. She wasn’t good enough for him. It was not written in the Fates, she believed. She could never have him. She started waning with grief.
> 
> But Rao would have her, the dark princess, the destroyer of Fates. He would change the Fates for her. So the next day, he planted flowers for her. Hundreds of red buds, covering entire fields, waiting. Waiting for something, someone. As night fell, Rao breathed his desires into the flowers. And at moonrise, when she arrived from beyond the clouds, the flowers bloomed. All of them, like red crystalline stars, carrying sunshine and hope and love. Every bud she kissed with her moonlight sprang open and sang praises of her beauty and grace and Rao’s love for her. She cried tears of joy, little pearls that clung to the flowers as moon dew.
> 
> The next dawn, when Rao saw the pearl-like dew drops, he knew his love had won over the Fates. She had watered the flowers, nourished them like their own children. She had called them _Eldirao. Stars of Rao._
> 
> -Extract from _Kryptonian Myths and Legends. IIIrd Edition._

 

The next few pages were pages from a journal. Lara’s, no doubt. Clark had given Bruce permission to read them, so Bruce continued.

> Oh Rao! I don’t know what to do anymore. The temple priestess scried the baby’s Guardian today, and she gave me a most impossible result- Eldirao! She said he is favored by the night, by Yuda herself. How is this possible? How can something guard my Kal when it doesn’t exist? Is he going to live without a guardian his entire life?

 

Guardian- this was rough translation of what Clark had called him earlier. Bruce was confused now. What was Lady Jor-El worried for?

The next page contained an extract from _Important Customs and Beliefs of Krypton._ There were many words which had no Earthly synonyms, and it was difficult to translate, but what Bruce summarized was this: Kryptonians used the position of stars at the time of a child’s birth to determine what their Guardian was, much like astronomy on Earth. Only difference being the accuracy of their science. Kryptonians had certain traits in their DNAs, which were complements to these Guardians. Now this Guardians were natural elements, like certain stones, one of the many states of water, fragrance from certain flowers, etc. which when physically present with the child, aligned with the electo-magnetic field of their bodies and charged their bodies. They literally gave them strength.

The scientist in Bruce was excited. Kryptonian biology was very interesting. Would Clark let him perform some experiments to see if the Guardian theory worked on Earth too? Did the yellow sun permit the charging, or would it cancel it out?

And then he remembered Lady Lara’s worries. _How can something guard my Kal when it doesn’t exist?_

More curious than ever, Bruce turned to the next set of documents in the ring. They looked like newspaper slides. The first few were documenting the Slave Wars of Krypton, and how one of the two moons of Krypton, the one containing the Slave colony, was destroyed during a rescue attempt.

They destroyed an entire moon? How _wrong_ did things go? Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. No wonder Clark did stupid, dramatic things all the time; he came from a planet where e _veryone_ did stupid, dramatic things all the time.

The next pages contained some arrest documents. Official statement on the imprisonment of a certain scientist Jax-Ur, who destroyed the other moon in an interplanetary travel attempt. He was the first to be sentenced to the Phantom Zone. The report was brief and precise, and mentioned that the Council banned space flight completely after this catastrophe.

Another article, this time from the _Scientific Journal of Kandor_  reported the following-

> Rapid extinction of lunar dependent flora and fauna- After the destruction of Wegthor, the last moon of Krypton, all lunar dependent forms of life, previously endangered, are stepping rapidly towards extinction […] including Eldirao flowers […] where scientists saw the last of them in the forests outside Argo City.

Oh. Extinction, huh? So Clark’s Guardian was the Eldirao flower, extinct by the time he was born. No wonder his mother was worried.

Bruce finally shuffled to the last few pages in the file. They looked like the scientific description of Eldirao. When he saw the flower diagrams, everything clicked into place. But he was also confused, even more now.

The documentation described the flowers, the temperatures at which they grew, most common locations, mentions of the Rao-Yuda myth, medical uses, and finally, some diagrams and images.

The entire morphology of the Eldirao flowers-the second whorl of diaphanous red petals, the supporting petal acting as the landing platform- was very familiar to Bruce. In fact, the semi-transparent flowers, glowing in the moonlight were an exact copy of Bruce’s red orchids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are certain changes introduced to to a certain imaginary solar system by Yours truly, including the destruction of the Slaver's moon, and the Eldirao flowers and their extinction, of course. The destruction of Wegthor, however is canon. So are Rao and Yuda. I do not own the poem and would be glad to credit the proper poet; please let me know if you are aware of any further details.


	10. Something about Fate and Death

Approximately fifty-two hours later, Superman made his journey back home. He was tired, and hungry, and had been drenched in the tidal waves so many times, he was sure he had salt water running in his veins by now. But just as the lights of Metropolis twinkled at the horizon, he changed his course. There was only one city he loved even more at night.

The Cave was empty when he landed on the cold, rocky floor. Nonetheless, the water droplets trickling from the stalactites and the gentle whirr of bat wings welcomed him. Clark closed his eyes and focused. Bruce’s calm heartbeat was accompanied by a dozen other panicked heartbeats. _Ah_ , his Bat was fighting crime out there. He should’ve located Bruce before he came barging in the Cave doors. To be honest though, the Cave really didn’t have doors, but …that wasn’t what Clark should focus on now.

He was tired, and approaching the Bat when he was in the middle of his patrol didn’t seem like a very good idea. Especially if… Bruce didn’t like what Clark had given him. Clark _really_ didn’t have the energy to have his …feelings crushed.

He sighed, looking around for one last time. Oh. That’s when his eyes caught the orchids, gleaming in the pale light from the computer screens.

* * *

The orchids were crystalline; they were red and pink and violet. Clark stepped closer, taking in the big bouquet placed in front of Bruce’s main Terminal (“the BatComputer!” young Dick had proudly declared, once upon a time). The pale screens surrounded them from three sides, casting a glow that made the flowers look ethereal.

They weren’t Kryptonite; Clark would’ve been floored by now in the proximity of this much Red K. On closer analysis, Clark read the crystalline structure of rubies, garnets, pink sapphires, amethysts and a few other precious stones he wasn’t familiar with.

And right beside them was a little envelope. Dazed, Clark picked it up, and flipped it over.

_“To the man who gives me lilies”_

Clark’s small smile burst through his fatigue and hunger like sunshine through storm clouds. Suddenly, he couldn’t hear Bruce’s heart over his own thundering heartbeat. He took out the letter with shaking fingers. Even though the message was brief, he had to explicitly focus on the inky words dancing on the rich, creamy paper.

_“Out. Patrolling.”_

How typically Bruce. Clark let out a nervous laugh.

 _“I read your documents,”_ the beautiful cursive said. _“And I’m keeping your ring.”_

Wait. _What_? Clark’s heart skipped a beat. Does this mean-? He read the next line, and then re-read it. And again for the third time, just to be sure.

_“But to be fair, maybe you should keep mine.”_

Sitting in the middle of the flowers was a silver ring, almost hidden in the gleam of the gemstones. Clark picked it up with shaking fingers. _‘Eldirao’_ : the ring was inscribed on the inside in Kryptonian. Bruce’s craftsmanship.

“You know how I said death is all I can be with?” A voice said, far away.

Clark snapped up, looking around, wiping the gentle tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. There was no one else in the Cave. Then …speakers? No. This low baritone he heard was unadulterated; no digital or electronic hum with it. Clark honed in on the voice. The wind was strong and the noise from the traffic a bare minimum. Bruce’s heartbeat was at its usual resting pace. The Bat was atop some tall building or tower, watching over his Gotham.

And he knew that Clark could hear him. That Clark _would_ hear him. Just like that, without any notice, without any notifications. Clark felt something bubbly in his chest.

“I also said something about Fate, didn’t I?” The north wind delicately carried Bruce’s voice to Clark. He could detect a hint of the underlying humor. “What are the chances that your extinct guardian finds you on a different planet, in a different galaxy?”

Clark shrugged his shoulders, overwhelmed by the bubbliness in his chest. Could Bruce see him? Hear him? He laughed again, feeling giddy.

“Hmm.” The vibrations heated Clark’s entire body. He could almost see Bruce’s satisfied half-smile. “You don’t get to see this in Gotham very often, but... The stars are twinkling tonight, maybe the very stars that wrote your fate.” Bruce sighed, and Clark felt the cool breath slither down his spine. “You should see this too.” Bruce’s tone was almost wishful. Wait. Was Bruce inviting him to join him in the starlight?

 “Sanskrit is a beautiful language, _Kal_.”

Only, his pronunciation was more Eastern than the American pronunciation most of the others used.

And what was it, if not fate, that Superman of all people was multilingual, just like Batman? Maybe not an expert, but during his self-discovering journey, he did stay in Asia, and pick up basic Sanskrit. Enough to know that ‘ _Kaal’_ in Sanskrit meant Time. And _Death_.

And Death was what the Bat attracted, in his own words. 

Touché.

The sleepy bats in the cave woke up when Superman lifted off and left a tiny storm behind. This time, he was sure the Bat wouldn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It IS fate, let me tell you! *screams into an abyss*


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty one times.

The curvy woman with dark hair winked, and then turned away to dance with the crowd, hips moving sinfully with the heavy beats. She strategically placed her hands on certain parts of her body to highlight her best… assets. In the strobe lights, she looked like a goddess from another world. No one would doubt why the man in the plaid shirt had been interested in her for a four-way a few months ago. Too bad he had left with another man that night, but this other man was Bruce _freaking_ Wayne, she didn’t mind. She was a little disappointed though; she was expecting them to ask her to join in too.

A cute waitress blocked his view for a second, just a second, and Dick was no longer looking at the beautiful woman in a skimpy dress. Instead it was a tall, blond man with broad shoulders, grinding with a brunette as the music changed. Dick almost choked on his beer, laughing at the confused expressions of the dancers who had been in closest proximity with the woman. The man had his blond hair tied back in a small bun, the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt open, hands on the petite waist of brunette who was too drunk to realise that she had been dancing with a woman just a few seconds ago.

The God of Thunder looked up from the dance floor with a smile that was hiding a dozen secrets. When he winked at Dick again, the Bludhaven officer simply burst out laughing. He chugged the rest of his beer and ordered another. By the time he turned back to look at the dance floor, he could see neither the curvy woman, nor the blond man. Instead it was a third man, tall and fair and dressed _oh so fine_. His luscious dark locks reached his shoulders, emerald eyes sparkling with mischief. He headed towards Dick, one eyebrow raised. _How about that?_

Maybe it was the way too many beers Dick had, but he was seriously impressed. He clapped, laughing, and ordered a drink for his guest. Didn’t matter what he ordered, Loki could simply click his fingers and turn it into Asgardian mead.

Handing his friend the glass, he couldn’t help but eye the dance floor where the blond man had been dancing just a few moments ago.

“Thor wouldn’t dress like that,” Dick said, sipping his own drink.

“Fooled Big Blue, didn’t I?” Loki hid a smirk in his voice, the transparent vodka turning into golden mead as soon as his fingers touched the glass.

“In my defense, you can only spend so much time with two love-struck _grown_ men acting like clueless teenagers in those unrequited YA novels.,” Dick shrugged, almost feeling guilty about fooling his idol _and_ his mentor. Loki was definitely miscalibrating his moral compass. “But hey! All’s well that ends well.”

“Is that why we are celebrating tonight?” The God of Mischief asked.

Lately, there was a light in Bruce’s eyes that Dick had never seen before. The Batman was working with renewed energy, a reinforced enthusiasm that almost belonged to someone else. As if he was born anew, afresh. As if he had been given a new reason to live.

And Dick certainly had something to say about the correlation between Superman’s visits to the Manor and the appearance of fresh lilies in all the vases he could see. He didn’t know what that meant, but the way Superman simply _lit up_ every time Bruce walked into the room told Dick everything he needed to know.

“That,” Dick said, smiling, “And to prove your claims that you can transform twenty one times before someone figures out something is wrong.” He motioned towards the dance floor.

“Hey! I’m done with nine already,” Loki finished his drink, setting the glass down on the polished table. “Besides,” he drawled, “Aesirs don’t lie. A lot.” He said the last two words with a wink.

The woman who got up and walked to the dance floor was petite and blonde, smirking over her shoulders. Dick couldn’t help but laugh again.


End file.
